


The Humming Walls

by zagreuwus



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: listen this is going to be really angsty okay you've been forewarned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zagreuwus/pseuds/zagreuwus
Summary: If a tree falls in a forest with nobody around to hear it does it make any noise? Well, that depends who you're asking, doesn't it? What if the walls can hear the trees falling? Do the walls count as somebody?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. The Cottage in the Woods

There’s nothing wrong with a little adventure -- or so he’s told himself time after time, and somehow each and every single time trouble has lingered upon the horizon. Only infrequently could he enjoy a walk along an alien mountainside or explore the depths of an unfamiliar ocean  _ without _ finding something there that wanted to see him or his friends dead. This time the TARDIS materialised amongst the brush of a nighttime forest. Tall, wet ferns shielded the blue box from view but each individual leaf on each individual tree shook violently as if blown against by a strong gust of wind. The silence was shattered. Birds that resembled crows--they might have even  _ been _ crows--fluttered off from their nests in the branches out into the open sky. Some type of rat skittered out from its disturbed hiding place in the ferns.

The Doctor noticed  _ none  _ of this from inside the ship, though. He retained within himself the excitement of mystery, of stepping out into the unknown. He stood under the cold blue light of the console, surrounded by metal pillars and gothic arches and all manner of clutter known and not known to man. He spared only a quick glance towards the monitor that hung from the ceiling to just beside his head, and then an equally quick glance to some of the readouts on the console.  _ Just _ to make sure that he wasn’t going to immediately melt or freeze or suffocate upon exiting those doors. He wasn’t completely mad--no matter what his friends would have said. But that was just it, wasn’t it? There was nobody else but him. Nobody to judge him but the disgruntled wheezing of the TARDIS. Nobody to comment passively whenever he did something  _ stupid _ or anyone else to look out for when danger stared them down. Equally, though, that meant there was also nobody to  _ share _ this adventure with. Nobody else would see the amazing things that he would see. It’s one of the reasons he writes everything down. It’s not only because one day he might forget something important; as is the neverending curse of crossing into your own time stream every Sunday; but because one day someone else might want to imagine what he saw.

Not that they ever asked.

“Time for a walk, I think.” He commented. But he did not comment to  _ himself _ . He made no attempts to speak to the  _ open air _ . Although that was absolutely what he was doing he’d like to excuse it as a friendly note to the ship that houses him. Maybe she’d like to know where he was going.

A few long strides--perhaps more than a few--took him to the door. This interior was so much larger than the other ones the TARDIS had sported. She’d not missed an opportunity to truly show off the extent of her size, and every step it took to cross her console room held its own amount of anticipation. It made it all the more spacious and all the more thrilling. Somehow, those two unique things were mutually exclusive within these walls. It made the dust harder to clean, though.

The door opened with its familiar creak and the Doctor stepped out onto the soft grass. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight that trickled through the trees, but it was definitely still dark. The kind of low light that made things just a little bit tricky to navigate and all the more easy to get lost in. The forest smelt of recent rain and if he listened closely enough he could hear droplets of water falling onto the forest floor with rhythmic clicks. There’s something oddly precise about it; the way gravity demands that they fall with such critical timing. Drip, drip, drip. It could sound like a clock if he wasn’t astutely aware that with every droplet the space between beats grows by a nanosecond. Something only he and people  _ like _ him would really notice if they cared to listen.

As he walks he finds that the forest isn’t the usual kind of forest he would find himself in. That is to say it’s not tried to eat him or kill him and nor has it proven to be hiding any sort of ambush.  _ Yet _ . It’s quite peaceful. He could see stars glittering through the gaps in the leaves, but as luck would have it one of those many drops of water landed directly in his eye as he observed the space above. With a sudden gasp of displeasure he turns his head down and blinks to clear his vision--that’s when he sees the small cottage in a clearing. It’s very old and rickety. It looks like a strong breeze might blow it over. There’s no lights on and no signs of life surrounding it, so he couldn’t imagine there would be anyone home. The more that he thinks about it the more eerie it seems. Here, the only company seems to be the bugs making their homes in the trees and the birds that eat them. The questions linger, then; why is this building here and why is it empty? Who built a house in the middle of nowhere with nobody around and why ever did they let it fall into such disrepair?

A hum of thought passes on a low breath of air as he starts towards it. There’s no point in verbalising his curiosities aloud (not that it’s ever stopped him before.) Nobody would hear it. It reminds him of that old saying--if a tree falls in a forest with nobody around would it make a sound? The answer, philosophically, is  _ no _ , because one cannot  _ be _ without being  _ heard _ . Things do not exist unless they are perceived. Or so say the metaphysicians, who, whilst he could admit had interesting theories, were really nothing more than people who had too much time to think. Scientifically, though? Any tree that falls makes sound, regardless of whether or not people hear it, because sound waves don’t  _ exist _ to be  _ recognised _ . Sound waves, unlike people, aren’t that egotistical. Nor are trees, for that matter.

There was supposed to be a point to that, somewhere.

His hand lingers over the wooden door frame as he knocks once, then twice. The door itself is rotten and already in pieces at the foot of the stone stairs leading to the entrance. Which is strange, for a start, because he would have presumed the door to be broken inwards. There’s plenty of explanations for why that wouldn’t be, though. Like wind. So he isn’t too worried when he enters.

“Anyone home?” He calls out. His voice just bounces around the empty halls. There’s no response except for what sounds like a startled bird flapping about somewhere deeper in the cottage. He reminds himself to watch out for that later on, lest it scare him half to death in the dark. Once again--there’d be nobody to hear him scream, either. He considers that a pro to weigh out essentially all of the cons he has already considered in regards to being the tree that falls in a lonely forest.

“No chance of a cup of tea, then.” He mumbles quietly below his breath as he steps further into the dark. There’s a hole in one of the nearby walls casting moonlight through into the main sitting room so he can just about make out the details there. There’s a fireplace--or what’s left of one. Above the mantelpiece is a broken frame, shards of glass spread all over the floor. The picture is water damaged, though, so he can’t make any of it out. Not even when he’s lit one of his newly reinstated collection of everlasting matches that aren’t actually everlasting. Whatever was there before, whatever memory was carefully protected by glass, was long gone along with whoever once lived here.

He jumps to a clattering in the room over. The bird, no doubt, that he had reminded himself to remember, and had instantly been distracted from the thought of. Ah well. He straightens with the intent to meet the bird--at least to become more familiar with its presence. This was probably its home, now. It’s a good warm place to nest. Safe, too, from predators. He or she probably isn’t very fond of his intrusion. Still, he doesn’t get much farther than the corridor before the humming starts. Like some song playing in the distance. Some performer in the middle of an empty forest with a cello? Possible, but unlikely. In fact it sounds a lot closer than the distant forest where trees fall and make no noise. In fact… he puts his ear to the wall, then. The humming is louder now. It’s almost as if something is singing from  _ inside _ the walls. But he’s well aware they’re thin. There’s nothing  _ between _ the walls. They’re just planks of wood. Just as he’s about to put his hand to the wall the match in his grasp burns too close to his fingers. With a hiss he drops it and quickly douses the lingering flame with the sole of his shoe. He doesn’t want to burn the place down before he’s even properly explored it. 

Yet just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Silence fell around him again and his only companion was the sound of the fluttering, squawking bird again. There was something abnormal going on here. He was confident this was Earth, judging from the poor architecture alone, and as far as he could recall, walls  _ did not _ hum in houses. Unless someone took a drill to them. Or turned up the bass too loud at their concerts. The musical quality of the noise wasn’t lost on him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if anybody else had discovered this before. Out here, in the middle of the forest where trees fall and make no noise, where people abandon their homes and the birds go quiet, who is going to hear a humming house?


	2. The Walls Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walls hear everything, the walls see everything, the walls know everything, the walls hold all memory, the walls hold time within them.

So, what is it about walls that hum? Well, the first thing that people will tell you is that it’s impossible. Walls don’t hum and they certainly don’t sing--they’re inanimate objects built to retain heat and protect people from the elements. That suggests that’s all they’re good for, though. What’s the point in a wall when there’s nobody to protect? Now, that’s the question.

Perhaps they’re busy protecting their resident bird. 

He wanders a little further along the corridor with his finger brushing along the edge of the wooden panels as though he’s following the side of a maze. He keeps steady and in line until he comes to the room housing the bird and that’s when he alters his direction. He’s very careful about entering because the last thing he wants is to be dive bombed by an angry pigeon. Which, funnily enough, is exactly what happens. He finds himself ducking just in time to avoid a couple of angry talons in the side of his skull and watches instead as the bird collides with the nearby wall. It flutters about a bit before regaining its strength to perch. 

“Wouldn’t you be happier outside where there’s more space?” He asks it as if it could answer. All it does is screech at him in a typical startled response. He can’t imagine the bird is comfortable here, though. It has wings to fly, after all! Surely it would much prefer the open sky--the freedom of the  _ whole world _ as opposed to this run down shack with humming walls. Or maybe the humming drew it here? Does the bird like the humming? Birds have always been naturally attracted to song, considering it’s their primary form of communication and the best way they have of attracting a mate. 

He takes a moment to consider that, of course. Birds tend to sing in the morning, primarily, when everything is quieter and they’re able to be heard properly. There’s no point in them singing if their song is drowned out, because the point of the song is to alert others of their presence. Whether to keep away intruders, to mark their territory, to call for their friends or note the presence of food. That’s at least the general rule of thumb. Birds don’t sing for fun. They’re clever, too. They don’t sing when they have young to care for, for example, because they’re too busy listening out for their children’s cries. They prioritise. 

The bird chirps.

“Who are you singing to? Hm?” He takes a few steps forwards in the dark--it’s easier to see now that his eyes have adjusted and the idea of lighting another match doesn’t seem all that important. The bird doesn’t move from its perch, surprisingly. In fact it allows him to get closer. It should be scared considering most wild animals don’t generally like tall bipedal beings intruding on their space. Not that he’s particularly tall himself. 

“Are you looking for a friend?”

The bird chirps again.

“You won’t find one in here.”

This time it doesn’t chirp.

The Doctor cautiously reaches out towards it, and just as his fingers are about to make contact with the perch the bird sits upon it flutters off again to the other side of the room. In its movement it knocks over a metal vase that’s balanced precariously upon a half-collapsed windowsill. The window itself caved in long ago and only had holes in it large enough to squeeze a mouse through and not much more. 

“Or have you..?” Now, that’s the question. After all, he’d found the bird, hadn’t he? Who’s to say the bird wouldn’t have found someone else?

His gaze turns to the nearest wall again and he considers for a moment what exactly had caused them to  _ hum _ to begin with. What was it that he’d done? Was it the light? He doubts that. He’d been wandering with the match for a while before the humming had started and it only seemed to  _ stop _ once he’d been distracted from it. There were many, many different things that might have caused it. There was also the possibility that he was going entirely mad in the silence and had imagined it--things like that tend to happen, after all. Like in an anechoic chamber where everything is so quiet you can’t hear anything other than yourself; when the heart beats so loudly in the ears you become so painfully aware of  _ yourself _ . It’s enough to drive anyone up the wall. That’s why, generally, you shouldn’t leave a person in one of those rooms for too long.

The record is forty five minutes, as far as he can recall. For a Human at the very least.

But it wasn’t  _ that _ quiet in here. The bird was chirping still and there was the faint sound of wind blowing through holes in the walls. He wasn’t wandering around surrounded by negative decibels. But the theory is an interesting one, at least. It’s a good place to start. Because in an anechoic chamber you  _ become _ the sound.

As a thought he knocks on the wall. Twice and powerfully. 

And it makes no noise.

None at all.

Lines burrow themselves down the centre of his brow as he tries again. This time he just keeps knocking--rapping at the wall with increasing urgency until he realises none of the knocks are going to make a noise at all. Can you even call it a knock or a rap if it doesn’t make sound, considering the words are onomatopoeic? No, probably not. So he was  _ striking _ the wall.

So, how does a wall produce sound and absorb it all at the same time? There’s a question for the laws of physics. He’d even raise it to the metaphysicians, too; they’d have a right old time with that concept.  _ The walls hear everything, the walls see everything, the walls know everything, the walls hold all memory, the walls hold time within them _ . Those sorts of things. No, walls are just walls, but it’s nice to think about. 

There’s a momentary impulse to punch his fist through the wall just to see what would happen. Good thing he’s gotten quite used to controlling those sorts of impulses. If the wall  _ is _ sentient in some way, that would probably be bad. Also, if the walls are sentient, would that make this house a living creature?

Has he just unknowingly walked inside a living creature?

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Still, he’s listening for  _ something _ , for  _ anything _ . He’s listening for that humming again; like he’s waiting for the walls to reach out and speak to him. Which is ridiculous, but not impossible. He’s heard of physical matter holding onto the echoes of memory before. A lot of people like to pass such a thing off as supernatural. It can happen, though, especially with radio waves, but it’s incredibly rare and generally cannot be picked up audibly and generally memories don’t  _ hum  _ either. So that’s another dead end.

“Oh, come on.” He says to the empty room and the bird chirps. “Sing for me again? I did notice the first time, I promise. Please?”

The walls don’t sing for him again. Whatever is going on here he has to wonder if maybe he’d offended them by burning his fingertips. Speaking of which; he takes a moment to place the scolded digits into his mouth to soothe the pain. It wouldn’t last, but whilst the burns are healing he’d rather do without the distraction. 

He leaves the room with the bird in it with a brief wave of his free hand and then moves further into the building. The upper floor of the cottage is all broken and the wood is rotten enough that even walking up there would be a stupid idea. He does notice, however, the door underneath the stairs. A cellar, perhaps? His fingers leave his lips with a little pop as he reaches out for the door handle and tugs it open. It takes some strength because the wood is almost entirely warped. It’s only when he’s got a foot against the base of the stairs that he manages to pry it apart. He’s immediately assaulted by a waft of dust that has him coughing violently for a good twenty seconds.

So, nobody has been here in years, then. Decades, even! He sniffles a little and then makes his way into the cellar. The steps are made of stone so there’s no danger of him falling through a worn plank. It’s cold in there, which is normal for a cellar. There’s an empty wine display at the back of the room which he can make out clearly even before he’s managed to make it down the steps. He notices that it's lit up strangely compared to the rest of the house. In fact, the entire room is, not just the dusty wine display. There’s this curious orange glow all around. Not typical for a cellar, but also the typical kind of problem you might run  _ into _ in a cellar. You’d not expect a mysterious glow in an upstairs bedroom or a lounge, after all. 

He turns the corner at the bottom of the stairs to get a good look into the rest of the space. The floor is muddy and the walls are bare and there’s a few rotting cardboard boxes thrown about ready to be tripped over by the unsuspecting adventurer. But on the very far back wall there’s a wooden shelf hung up by a couple of sturdy chains. The actual shelf itself is in decent condition considering the amount of water damage that most of the wood in this place has faced. On top of the shelf is a candle--and it’s burning. The flame flickers away. On its own one wouldn’t consider a candle in a cellar to be strange. But considering that the door has been warped shut for years and there’s no other (obvious) exit to this place he has to wonder… what’s living down here? Or better yet:  _ how long has this candle been burning _ ?

There’s another saying his mind falls away towards; “the brightest flame burns fast.” This lone candle burns faintly but enough to light the room. How dim must a candle burn to burn for this long? The wax should’ve melted down onto the wood. In fact, the wood itself should be burnt, if not completely and utterly turned to ash. None of this is right. Is it an illusion? Just to check the Doctor strides towards it with assurance and pushes his hand  _ right _ into the flame. Impulsive, because it does burn and he has to snatch his hand away quickly. Now he has scolded fingers  _ and _ a scolded palm. Complete the set, he supposes. But why ever should there be light in a place where nothing lives? In a place where nobody is around to see it shine? Nothing about this makes any sense at all.

Unless it's been lit just for him.

Just out of curiosity (again) he leans towards the candle and attempts to blow the flame out. All it does is dance in correspondence to the weight of his air. Then, once the air is dispersed, the flame returns to its upwards position. He tries again: same result. It’s eternal, then. Eternal, and completely alone.


	3. The Absence

So, what do you do when you find a candle that never goes out, walls that hum, birds that won’t leave ramshackle houses, and really old cellars? Naturally, you investigate--or at least that’s natural for the Doctor. Exploring the  _ rest _ of the building seems like the best idea, but upstairs is only accessible dangerously and there’s not much left of the ground floor. Curls bunch up in his collar as he tilts his head back to look at the ceiling above him. Cold stone. Nothing else. But he wonders if maybe he could access the upper floor if he’s careful about it.

Or maybe he’ll just fall through the floor and sprain an ankle. Maybe there’s no point in exploring it at all. 

It doesn’t take him long to make his decision. With one more quick glance at the candle that still burns he starts making his way back towards the stairs. Only he stops at the bottom of the staircase. He’s not usually one for hesitating, of course, but the abnormality makes him pause. The door at the top of the stairs is closed, now. He’d made a point of leaving it open so he wouldn’t have to struggle with trying to open it again. Had it closed behind him without him realising? Or had someone shut it. Is he being rounded up into a trap like a lamb to the slaughter? He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

He bounds up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time even though the dark should make such an attempt dangerous, and reaches the top in less than two seconds. When he reaches the top that’s when he notices that the door has no handle. That’s when he realises he really  _ is _ trapped. There’s no other exits to the cellar (unless he wants to spend two years digging through rock with the teaspoon he has stashed in his coat or using his fists to break down the door.) It wouldn’t be  _ hard _ to get out, but now he’s curious about what it is about this cellar that wants him to stay.

With the quietest of hums and the thoughtful brush of his fingers over where the door handle  _ should _ be he backs down the staircase one step at a time. He doesn’t look where he’s going, but he’s pretty used to the trip-steps now. 

“Well, then. If you’re going to keep me prisoner the least you could do is sing me a little song.” He speaks to the house as if it might answer. He’s tried that before and it hadn’t worked, but it’s worth another attempt. “Come oooon.” He holds his arms out at his side, declaring the house a challenge, maybe. That seems stupid, but to be honest, he’s done it before. “Start with something easy? Something like… oh… Frére Jaques? Twinkle Twinkle Little Star? You could sing me Happy Birthday if you want, it’s been a while since I last heard it. I’ll take a present, too, if you’ve got one.”

Silence.

“Alright, if you’re going to be like that…” He drops his arms, wanders into a corner near the candle, and parks himself down on the floor. Cross-legged, he rests back against the wall, and starts humming to himself instead. An abstract version of  _ The Blue Danube _ that is sometimes a little out of tune but mostly involves a few dozen  _ extra _ notes that weren’t in the original version. After about two minutes of that he falls silent, too, and stares at the candle. It hasn’t burnt down at all since he’s been here. It’s curious, but he’s not really sure what to  _ do _ with it. He’s starting to wonder if he  _ imagined  _ the walls humming before, if it had just been something his mind invented to fill the silence. Of course, that’s when they  _ do _ start humming. That’s when he feels the wall behind him vibrating softly; the stone and brick and mortar all come together in one confusing harmony. It echoes the song he’d been humming a moment ago. 

He lifts his eyes to the room, allowing his gaze to skirt over the walls and the candle and the empty wine shelf. He doesn’t want to speak just in case it  _ stops _ . He doesn’t want to speak in case he scares away whatever it is that’s making the noise. He almost feels like he’s being rude by leaning against the wall that’s humming to him now, but just as he considers standing up, he finds himself falling. A little yelp escapes him as he goes tumbling backwards  _ through _ the wall, through the floor, through  _ everything _ . Everything just goes black and for a moment he feels weightless. Like he’s existing on a bed of nothingness. It’s incredibly relaxing and comforting and for a moment he thinks he could happily stay here forever--wherever here is. 

It takes him a moment, though, to realise he’s not falling anymore. That he’s just… here. Stationary. Wherever here might be. It seems like some sort of fourth dimension. Inside the walls that hum, he supposes. Lying on the floor of nothing seems a little lazy, though, and eventually he moves to stand. It’s awkward trying to climb to your feet when there’s no real concept of which way is  _ up _ . There’s gravity, but it’s…  _ everywhere _ . Like you could  _ choose _ which way up is, if you really wanted to, which he finds himself doing now. Chances are if he were still in the real world he’d probably be entirely the wrong way up. Good thing he’s not in his own dimension, then.

He glances around, but there’s nothing to see. It’s just endless black. He looks down at his hands, his brown boots, and shifts his foot on the non-existent floor. It makes no sounds. He stamps. It makes no sound. 

“Hello?” He calls out--that  _ does _ make sound. Normally when he calls out like this he tends to get no answer, normally it’s like yelling into the forest, he supposes.

So, he doesn’t expect an answer.

“Welcome, Doctor.” A voice responds from the darkness. A voice he recognises but cannot place. He frowns a little, because he feels like he  _ should _ know it. Yet, at the same time, he’s quite confident that there’s nothing in this place he ought to recognise. He’s never been here before. He’s seen things  _ like _ it, though. What’s funny is how whoever it is speaking to him knows his  _ name _ . 

“Well, you have an advantage over me.” He answers as he steps forward into nothingness. “You know me but I don’t know you. An introduction wouldn’t go amiss.” 

“You do know me.” The voice answers from the darkness. “From the Absence.”

That doesn’t mean anything to him, at all, but he considers the possibility nonetheless. He’s forgotten a lot of things before--this absolutely  _ would not _ be the first time.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“We are the lost. The forgotten. We are the past and the future. We are what you want to leave behind.”

Well, that didn’t bode well. He does hate being reminded of those sorts of things. There’s a reason he’s always moving, always running towards the shining beacons of light in the blackness--which there aren’t any here. So, that’s also not an enjoyable prospect.

“How do you figure? Are you just rooting through my mind, because that’s intrusive.”

“You asked us to sing for you.” The voice tells him, and it sounds a lot louder now than before… and  _ behind _ him. He turns on the spot and comes face to face with someone he really wishes he hadn’t. For a moment his breath catches in his throat and he chokes on a word or two. Whatever this place is and whoever the people are that  _ rule _ over it, they clearly don’t know how to respect a person’s privacy. 

“You know this face.” The blond woman says as she takes those last few steps to stand in front of him. “So we know yours.”

“No.” He answers stubbornly. “Not that face.” He shakes his head as a frown forms upon his expression, tightly woven wrinkles cutting between his brows. “I want to see who you really are, not thinly veiled behind the disguise of an old friend.”

“She was more than a friend to you, though, wasn’t she?”

Well, he doesn’t like this one bit at all anymore. He almost regrets coming here. Maybe it would’ve been better if he’d left the tree to fall in the forest and not bothered to find out which one had toppled over.

“Her name was Charley?” 

“It still  _ is _ her name.”

“But not to you, she’s long gone now, isn’t she?”

“What does it matter? I didn’t exactly come here to talk about me.”

“Then why did you come?”

That gives him a pause. Why did he come? What was the point? To stave off his boredom? That was the point, after all. But he supposes that is selfish. Searching for something to entertain  _ him _ , nobody else. But this wasn’t entertaining. He preferred distractions, not self reflection.

“Not to be confronted by my past, that’s for sure.”

“Here we hold everything that makes everyone who they are. We are where forgotten things go to be remembered, because nothing ever truly dies. Here, everything you once knew is still alive.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fanfic i've decided to write since like 2013 and they were really awful back then... trust me i've improved this is going to be really in depth and metaphorical.


End file.
